


“from the shelter of His mind, through the window of His eyes”

by fannishliss



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 18:07:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fannishliss/pseuds/fannishliss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>susannaheanes</b>  in a fit of MISHA MISHA MISHA challenged for this.<br/>I did my best.<br/>1. Castiel gets his freak on with Dean<br/>2. This is set between the mid s4 and the s5 series finale.<br/>3. Castiel attempts to heal Dean heartbroken over Sam.<br/>4. It all happens in a Monastery.<br/>5.  Dedicated to a Rogue Gnostic Episcopalian, because Sex should be a religious experience. \0/<br/>6.  Bonus! misappropriation of Christian scripture.</p><p>No angel!peen, no deen!peen.  Sorry!  This is PG rated Angelic ecstasy.<br/>
Kripke, please avert your eyes, while I mess around with the pretty, pretty men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	“from the shelter of His mind, through the window of His eyes”

“from the shelter of His mind, through the window of His eyes”

 

  
The light pours in silently, like a choir singing in pitches too high (or too low) for the human ear.  Dean’s Latin has never been better.  The cycle of 150 psalms, sung around the clock, has drilled itself deep into his brain.  Pretty unexpected for a man who, in his old life, didn’t even know all the words to “Silent Night.”

Right now the sanctuary is silent – at least, as Dean has already noted, as far as human ears can detect.  But then, of course, Dean has always known just how much goes on in this world that humans can’t detect – or that they simply refuse to acknowledge.  Dean had spent his life fighting the things that go bump in the night – things other people,  passing their nights in quiet sleep, never dream about.  Now, Dean has been forced to admit that the dark side is not the only side out there.  A radical readjustment of attitude was required of Dean.  He’d been just as willfully blind as any civilian, before; but he’s been forced to acknowledge that there are warriors of Light, fighting on the side of good – not just hunters, not just avenging spirits, but honest-to-God Angels, walking the earth, intervening to help save humankind from the forces of darkness.

Dean tries to empty his mind and heart of the rage and sorrow that mere word – “darkness”  conveys. Brothers tearing into each other in a monumental clash of will, each made a monster by love twisted into despair – lies, secret plans, unmet expectations, unhinged destiny, a fiery hand and sulfurous eyes.  Dean had run, deep into darkness, just to get away, before he betrayed the one man he’d loved all his life, with a love more precious to him than his own soul.

Somewhere, he trusts, his brother still lives – too damn stubborn to die, Dean prays, and grudgingly, Dean hopes Ruby is watching out for Sam’s sorry ass.

Dean crosses himself, and begins again at the beginning. “Gloria Patri, et Filio, et Spiritui Sancto, Sicut erat in principio, et nunc, et semper, et in saecula saeculorum. Amen.”  He then says his prayers, heartfelt and sincere, for the church (for Jim and those like him), for the world, for those in need (almost too many to name, but Dean has a long list). Dean prays, confessing his sins, and has learned they are not so many as he used to believe; he gives thanks for the faithful departed, the hunters who paved the way, the Angels who have fallen on the side of Light, for Mary, for John, but dear God, please, not yet for Sammy. As he closes his prayers with “our father,”  Dean feels a familiar presence beside him, and voices the Lord’s Prayer out loud, a deep voice rasping beside him in unison.

“AMEN,” their voices solemnly intone, and Dean opens his eyes to meet the steady blue gaze of his Angel, Castiel.

“I felt your need,” Castiel states. Dean says nothing, but leans in toward the vessel that houses the Angel.  The prayers have calmed the extremes of Dean’s heart, but his soul still aches for the brother he’s left, who’s fighting out there in ways Dean can’t condone.

Dean and the vessel are of a height.  Dean feels a pang when the shoulder he’s laying his head on isn’t three or four inches higher than his own.  Then Castiel’s arms come up around him, holding him in a gentle embrace.  The scent of roses fills Dean’s brain-- along with a hint of something else, like a meadow or a mountain stream – but nothing of the human body the Angel inhabits, nothing of the polluted world he wears it through. This is not true Angel’s flesh, but still, the vessel is somewhat transformed by the being that fills it, radiating purity with dangerous intensity.

Dean leans into that purity, breathing it in.  “Castiel,” he whispers, “what am I doing here?”

Castiel’s hand begins to stroke down Dean’s back, long soothing strokes, and maybe there’s a hint of heat, electricity, something shivery building beneath the Angel’s soothing touch.

“Dean,”  the Angel says, his voice low and serious,  “you are taking a sabbatical. The Lord gives a day of rest to all his warriors.  You must be ready for the battle to come.”

“Oh, dear God!”  Dean says, and anguish rips through him anew.  “I can’t kill Sammy!  Please, Castiel!”

“We both pray it won’t come to that.  And Dean, one thing I can promise you – if Sam falls, it will not be by your hand.” 

Dean shudders in Castiel’s arms, and hot tears roll down his face.  As a boy, he never cried.  He’d clam up, tough it out, go weeks without a word if he needed to, but he never let out a whimper.  Now, a grown man, he cries every other freaking day, it seems like, and the tears seem to come from a torn place inside that no amount of release can ever make whole.

“Please, please,” Dean sobs, and no longer knows why he’s crying, or what he’s pleading for.

Castiel rocks him through it.  Since he left Sam, Dean’s been like this a few times, and Castiel has always been there.  Uriel’s off on his own missions these days, the war thinning the Angels’ ranks, and Uriel can’t always be there to slag off on Winchesters in particular and mud monkeys in general. 

Castiel’s nature as a creature of Light, it turns out, is just as intensive as his mission as a warrior. What’s more, Castiel is pretty much made of love, for humans in general and for Dean in particular.  Having drawn Dean out of the torments of perdition, he’s not about to cut him loose now – and Dean is overwhelmingly grateful. 

Dean’s tears slow, and strangely, he thinks about Hell. Alistair was always there, so intent on watching him – every little reaction, every quiver of his breaking soul --  Alistair was fully devoted to what Dean would become, and Dean had never been the object of such unwavering attention – hatred though it was, it sometimes felt like the love he’d always yearned for and never quite won.  As Alistair’s apprentice, Dean had revelled in the archdemon’s praise.  For once, Dean was praised for his excellence – however horrific-- and he had enjoyed it. 

But Castiel had raised him up, forgiven him, and taught Dean at last to forgive himself.  Kicking himself had gotten him nowhere.  Rest up and live to fight another day – maybe save Sam, or the world, if he got the chance.

“You feel better,” Castiel states, holding him tenderly--an Angel, focusing all his divine compassion on one Dean Winchester.

Dean raises his head from the Angel’s shoulder.  He wants to say thanks, but something stops him.

When Dean first met Castiel, the Angel had seemed a cold, alien superbeing, demanding the respect of his inferior, his debtor. As time passed Dean saw through to Castiel’s desperation – like Dean himself, Castiel was a warrior seeking the perfect weapon in a war for the ultimate fate of the world. 

Now, Dean is struck by what he sees. Castiel’s face is shining with love, and Dean basks in the light of his countenance. 

It hadn’t been like this with Anna.  She was muted, afraid – a mere spectre of her Angelic nature.  Dean remembered how Castiel had peered at her, trying to recognize the shadow of the Angel he had known.

This Being, holding Dean in his arms, had walked the world when humans were scratching in the dirt. Castiel was still fully himself, a thing of divine Grace, perfect and eternal. And clearly, he loves Dean with all his heart.

Dean is dazzled.  He can’t really think.  He just has to surrender to what he feels. He relaxes his body, opens his eyes, and lets go.

Everything seems to fall away.

The echoing stillness of the monastery rings as though vibrating with inaudible chimes.

The blueness of Castiel’s eyes is a shallow reflection of the Being generating the all-encompassing love that’s surrounding Dean.

“Father, into Your hands I commend this spirit,” Castiel breathes, and he captures Dean’s mouth with his own. 

Time slows to a stop.  The dust motes hang in the swirling light.

Dean feels heavy, enslaved – he feels enraptured, light as air.

He rests in the arms of the Angel and breathes, feels his spirit pass out of him, into the heart of the Angel.

Light and darkness seem to pulse around them.  Dean has trouble keeping up with what’s happening.  All he feels is bliss, pure escalating bliss as the Angel caresses Dean’s lips with his own, the Angel’s sweet breath filling Dean’s lungs as his spirit soars higher into Light, perfection.

I wish I could see you, really, Dean thinks, and is not shocked at all when Castiel replies, in his mind, close your eyes -- so he does.

Dean does not see the mere shadow of Castiel’s wings.  Instead he feels the orgasmic rush of power, exaltation, as Castiel’s might unfurls.  All around him, Dean feels the rush and thrum as the wings beat and pulse, sheltering him, anointing him.  Dean feels the Grace of Castiel balming his wounds, soothing his sorrows, blessing his strengths and imperfections. Every cell in Dean’s body is bursting with light.  Every shadow in Dean’s mind is flooded and cleansed. Dean’s soul rises up inside him – the soul Alistair worked so hard to blacken and rend – and Dean feels that his soul is made new, by the Grace and love of Castiel.

Dean feels something he never thought he’d feel in life, again.

Joy-- pure, unadulterated joy-- delight! --and awe that Castiel has lifted him up.  God commanded it, but Castiel did it. 

Dean feels his mind begin to falter at the expanse of it. Castiel’s love is too vast-- Dean can’t contain his response. He simply remembers to breathe, and feeling the spirit rushing between them – between the Angel’s Sanctified vessel and Dean’s resurrected body---  Dean gives thanks with all his soul, and feels the last weight of guilt slip from his shoulders.

Castiel releases Dean from the kiss, but holds him still, till Dean gets his feet back under him.   His wings still throb and pulse around them, even after Dean opens his eyes.  Dean, at last, is seeing Castiel’s true visage, and he’s not blinded. He’s heard Castiel’s true voice.  Castiel holds Dean in his arms, and doesn’t let him go. 

And Dean, at last, is free.

***  
   
super bonus if you get the song the title is misquoted from!!

 

 


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